


No Dictionary Sufficient in This Land of Men

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Series: It's Us Against the World [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Dom/sub, Intersex Character, M/M, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-18
Updated: 2012-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-02 03:50:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock find something between them beyond, or perhaps around, words.  Story elements include D/s themes and trans characters.  Warning for transphobia and implied sibling abuse + very mild violence.  Also, part one is John POV and part two is Sherlock POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Dictionary Sufficient in This Land of Men

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a response to [this kinkmeme prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/14370.html?thread=84499746#t84499746) but LJ won't let me post comments. If someone has an LJ account and would be willing to post a link to this story there I'd very much appreciate it!

_One._

"Don't look shocked," Sherlock says mildly, not looking up from his book. It's an academic-looking volume, but the lamplit cover shows an image of naked male bodies and a lengthy title with the word "sexuality" in pristine typeface. John's come down for a glass of water, and he didn't mean to stop, but here he is, standing in the middle of the living room floor in his socks and pyjamas.

"Erm..."

"I've seen your stash. By comparison, this is hardly..."

"Sherlock!" John blushes, picturing his carefully hidden collection of skin mags. Entirely crude, no excuse for it, but that's the kind of thing that gets him off and he's unapologetic. Still, flatmate's rules, and the skin mags aren't the most surprising thing Sherlock might find if he raids John's room, particularly with lock-picking tools. "You can't just go snooping in my..."

"Obviously I can. Coffee, while you're in the kitchen."

"It's two thirty in the morning."

Sherlock doesn't say anything in response, and John sighs and heads into the kitchen. Well. There's that sorted.

~*~

"Am I gay or bisexual?" John asks. They've had a case recently enough that Sherlock isn't causing any worrying chemical reactions in the flat, and John tends to take these times to get pleasantly drunk. Sherlock just eyes him with amusement.

"Why do you ask?"

"Testing your skills. Gay or bisexual?"

"Gay," Sherlock replies easily. John snorts and sips at his beer.

"Why?"

"You're pleasant with women, but you don't look at them the same way."

"Oh come off it. It's not like you've seen me eyeing up Lestrade."

"No," Sherlock replies smoothly, catching John's eye and holding it. "Not Lestrade."

John swallows too hard and decides to focus on his beer.

~*~

It isn't the testosterone prescription locked in a hidden drawer that gives away John's secret, after all. Nor does he make a move on Sherlock--not because he's ashamed, but because the aftermath would be awkward if Sherlock's concept of "gay" doesn't encompass John's body, what with them being flatmates and all. He doesn't want to put Sherlock through that.

Unfortunately, the culprit is Harriet bloody Watson, showing up three sheets to the wind and dripping with rainwater, eyeliner pouring down her face in rivulets. He shouldn't even open the door, but John has a weakness--a kind of guilt/rage/affection thing he can never quite quantify towards his sister. In a quiet moment, he sits her down in his own chair on a towel and dabs away her makeup, and everything seems almost all right. Sherlock even brings her a cup of coffee, which she drinks half of before she starts in on John with a steady increase in volume.

"Clara's all your bloody fault. This whole mess."

"That's patently ridiculous. What did you do this time?"

"I didn't do _anything_! She thinks it's _genetic_ or something, that I'm really straight like you, because I saw some bloke down the pub and let him flirt..."

John's back goes tense. "Clara didn't say that. Clara knows I'm gay. You're talking nonsense."

"Oh, yes, _Clara_ says you're gay, because Clara is _so_ looovely and aceeepting. Why don't you go live with bloody Clara, Amanda, and bugger off to be happy together?"

"Harry," John growls in warning. His eyes flick briefly to Sherlock, who's staring at him, his thinking cap on. Perhaps not enough has been said to piece things together fully, but it won't take much more. Unsurprisingly, Harry ruins it for him.

"Shut up! Just because you have to be a bloody heterosexual, and some _book_ says identical twins are supposed to have the same orientation... it's your _fault_!" she screams, and slaps him once across the face. John just stares at her, though he stands and steps back one pace.

"Only 52% percent of the time," Sherlock replies. His tone is flat, and he's impossible to read. He's not putting the pieces together now, he knows what Harry's alluding to. Somehow, without any indication, John can tell. "You will leave our flat now, Miss Watson."

"Do you even know who you're living with, Sherlock Holmes?" Harry asks in a simpering tone as she rises unsteadily to her feet. "Did Amanda tell you?"

"I don't know any Amanda," Sherlock says in that same flat tone, and steers her to the door by her elbow, shoving her handbag after her and locking the door in her face.

John takes a deep breath. "Well. That's Harry."

Sherlock's expression doesn't change, but he comes closer, tenderly touching John's cheek. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. It's not the first time." He doesn't move, though, because Sherlock's _touching_ him, and he knows who John is--was--and even though Sherlock's unusual in every way, and it would honestly be _odd_ for him to hold the same prejudices as the majority of the gay male community, John's grown accustomed to being ready for prejudice.

"I'll make tea," Sherlock offers, and John tosses the towel away to sit in his chair.

~*~

"Sherlock," John asks over Chinese. "Don't take this the wrong way, but... are you trans?"

Unexpectedly, Sherlock's response to that is a smile. "Very good, John. You're observing. But no."

"No?" John frowns. "I don't normally get a 'very good, John' for a no."

"Well, despite your limited skills in the science of deduction, I can hardly fault you for missing it. The truth is exceedingly unlikely."

"Once you eliminate the impossible..."

Sherlock's smile is curt as he twirls lo mein noodles around his fork. "Indeed."

"You don't have to talk about it if it makes you uncomfortable. I just noticed... um... most people would be at least a little bit surprised, by what Harry said, and I..."

"John, really, when am I ever surprised?"

"I know, but it was more than that."

"You observed something?"

John frowns. "Intuition, I think."

"Rubbish." Sherlock chews a dumpling in silence, then steeples his fingers together, elbows on his knees. "I was born with a rare defect affecting primary sex characteristics. My parents opted to raise me as a girl."

John's lips part slightly in recognition. He is a doctor, after all. "Surgery?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Unnecessary. Though there were considerations, when I reached puberty. I was... not amenable."

John just snorts, because he can certainly imagine twelve-year-old Sherlock being _not amenable_ to that sort of a plan. "What did you do?"

"Concentrated on my studies. Refused medical intervention. Had my name legally changed at 18. Dabbled in cocaine."

John nods slowly. "Does Lestrade know?"

Sherlock shakes his head sharply. "My parents. Mycroft."

"All right. Well. Fortune cookie?"

~*~

Their first kiss is against a wall in some alley, John's cheek scraped and stinging with fresh blood. Sherlock's hand almost clutches at his hip and he tastes copper before they hear the sirens and let go of one another. Mycroft's black car pulls up first, and the woman who is not Anthea wears a vaguely disapproving smirk.

~*~

"You really should go to hospital. What if you get an infection?"

"I'm not going to hospital," Sherlock mutters through teeth gritted against the pain.

"You're being silly, Sherlock. I'm sure Doctor Watson is perfectly competent, but 221B is about the furthest possible thing from a sterile environment in existence."

"No."

"It's not like they're going to lift the gown and poke around for their own enjoyment!" Sherlock's brother exclaims with an exasperated sigh.

"Mycroft, so help me God, I will render you infertile with your own umbrella." John's tone is cold, even, and diamond-hard. Both brothers go still, eyeing him with perhaps a new-found respect.

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft returns mildly, once he's recovered. "I have access to _your_ medical records also, you're aware."

"Mister Holmes," John says, just as mild, except for the part where he's raising the sterile needle in his gloved hand in a vaguely threatening gesture. "Get out of my flat."

Mycroft does.

~*~

An invalid Sherlock is a doctor/flatmate's worst nightmare, but John's expected that. He's surrendered his laptop entirely, and a stockpile of sweets is prepared to use as bargaining chips in exchange for doses of non-narcotic painkillers and antibiotics. At one point, John notices that most of Sherlock's requests require John to remain in close proximity to Sherlock, and though Sherlock mostly ignores him when he does, he's smart enough to deduce that his presence is some kind of a comfort. Book in hand, he relocates to Sherlock's sofa, sitting at one end and positioning Sherlock to lean back against him, legs extended in front of his body. Sherlock doesn't comment.

~*~

_Two._

They don't exactly fall into bed, but there are hints. Kisses more frequent, sometimes initiated by Sherlock, though more often the other way around once John realizes that Sherlock wants it. John catches Sherlock reading one of his magazines at one point, before he explains that the magazines are exaggerated wank fodder at best, and that he doesn't really want Sherlock to do _that_ to a part that John doesn't actually have.

Sherlock sniffs and says something about psyches and unconscious associations and John pushes his hand up into Sherlock's hair and grips in a fist that pulls the most undignified whimper up from Sherlock's throat. "John, I want... but I don't know if..."

"Hey. It's okay. I've got you," John murmurs, pulling Sherlock close by the front of his shirt instead and kissing him, slow and easy, until a little bubble of warmth rises up through Sherlock's body and he feels himself begin to grow hard. John kisses him firmly, sure and gently demanding, but he doesn't feel feminized by the other man's decision to take charge. John is every exception, it seems, even more so these days. John's jumper is soft against his chest and John's fingers tangle in his hair and Sherlock's body starts to relax and open and push against him.

"I want to fuck," Sherlock murmurs. "With you."

"Okay," John smiles against his mouth. "That's a good start."

The ghost of a laugh comes from Sherlock's chest, his forehead resting against John's. In a way, this is so absurd. "I don't know how. How will we..."

"We'll find out what feels good together," John answers, always logical if not particularly observant, and fits his mouth against Sherlock's again. So far, they're doing an excellent job of "feeling good." John tugs back a little, and Sherlock finds himself straddling John's lap at the foot of the bed, his knees on either side of John's hips. The position pushes his groin against John's abdomen and he still has to tip his head down for kissing, but then John's lips brush against his throat and the position is _perfect_ , no complaints whatsoever. He feels the wings of John's shoulder blades and breathes slowly, deliberately.

"Let's start with words," John suggests, one hand slotting between them to cup against the mound of Sherlock's erection, fingers nudging lightly at his labia/scrotum/whatever they are today. Words is exactly what Sherlock _doesn't_ want to start with, and he frowns at John's next question. "Tell me what to call these?"

"I don't know," Sherlock admits, half-voiced. "I have... generally preferred them unnamed." Will that be the case with John? He doesn't know. He imagines John's voice wrapping around dirty sentences directed at Sherlock's body, directed in a _positive_ sense at Sherlock's body as sexual object, and he doesn't even know _what_ to think. His breath hitches in the beginnings of a panic. "How did you decide what to call yours?" he asks quickly. John is so steady, so strong right now--maybe it's an idiotic question, as John's genitalia are surely more _normal_ , even if they don't match his gender, even if they're altered by hormones. Surely easier to name? Fortunately, John only smiles.

"Would you like me to show you?" John asks, the words rolling from his mouth so unoffended and sensual that Sherlock grasps the back of his neck and attacks him with a hard kiss, shoving him flat down onto the bed.

"Yes," he breathes when their lips part, and John just laughs.

"I see that," John says, arching his eyebrows. Sherlock feels _hot_ between his legs, his nipples tingle, and he's not used to feeling this unambiguously sexual. He just swallows and helps John out of his jumper, his t-shirt. He raises his hips and John scuttles back on the bed, kicking out of his jeans and pants and toeing off his socks. Sherlock's eyes scan his body, quickly at first--mastectomy scars, pubic hair, a pink phallus smaller than Sherlock's, the hair on John's thighs.

"Come here," John requests gently, and Sherlock tips forward, kissing John again, lying down on top of him for a moment. He's glad John doesn't demand that he remove his clothing yet. He's getting there.

A few unhurried kisses, hands skimming John's sides, and then John gently guides Sherlock down, pushing at his shoulders. "This is my chest," John murmurs, holding Sherlock's hand and moving his fingertips over the nipples, over the scars. A beyond-obvious statement, but it doesn't sound silly right now. Sherlock lowers his mouth to one nipple, applies heat and moisture, tongue flicking gently.

"Can you feel that?" he murmurs against John's skin, as John's hand moves to gently cup the back of his neck.

"A little. Not as much as before, but it looks bloody gorgeous," John says with a boyish grin that makes Sherlock roll his eyes. He spends a little more time licking and exploring with his fingers before he moves down to John's genitals, glancing up expectantly as he lightly strokes a finger over the pink, protruding tissue and feels John's resultant shudder.

"And now you're touching my cock," John informs him helpfully. That should not sound _nearly_ as sexy as it does. Sherlock's uncertainty about how to navigate his own body in this context shifts a little to the side as he focuses on John's, fingers parting pubic hair as his lips tug lightly at John's erectile tissue, applying gentle suction. He gives John a minute of that, little swallowed sounds making him want to immediately strive for more. Instead he lifts his head and gives John a cheeky grin.

"And now, I'm sucking your cock."

John snorts a laugh, gives Sherlock's hair a tug, and reaches down to tug gently at generous flaps of skin below said cock. "These are my balls," he instructs. "Despite appearances to the contrary. And this is my cunt," he continues, letting Sherlock stroke just inside with a fingertip, slowly circling and feeling the tension around John's entrance. "If you think there's anything female about my having a cunt, you can go home now," John adds with a tone that suggests he's delivered that line many times before.

"I am home," Sherlock purrs, and he gives himself a mental congratulations when John's cock twitches, his fingers greeted with slickness as they probe just a little deeper.

"Fucking right you are," John mutters fiercely under his breath, tugging Sherlock's hair right at the root. He hisses and shivers. No one's ever handled him like this before. He won't go making declarations at the moment, but if he were any less aroused, all of this data would be frantically cataloged, ready to analyse. As it is, that can wait a couple of hours. He's too strung out on the _sensation_ of it all, far better than the drugs he took to numb a world of misgendering and false recognition. He licks the salty liquid from his fingers, tongue curling in an overt display, and watches John's eyes burn for him.

"Do I have to name my arsehole, or are you ready to get naked for me?" John growls, and suddenly Sherlock so enthusiastically _is_.

It's still scary to actually drop his trousers as John's looking on with that heated lust in his eyes, and he wilts a bit despite his own desire. "I'm not sure what I..." Sherlock sits on the side of the bed, scoots his arse back with his legs still tightly together. "Maybe best..."

John, bless him, sees Sherlock floundering immediately and shifts his position, kneeling behind Sherlock and wrapping his arms around the smaller man. He presses his mouth to Sherlock's neck, palm flat against his chest. "May I touch you?" he asks, and Sherlock reminds himself that John is a _doctor_ , that he's seen abnormalities. That in fact, his body isn't _that_ different from John's own, and John is certainly no less of a man. John's confident sexuality with his cunt and his balls and his wicked grin are easier to focus on as Sherlock nods, takes John's hand and directs it down, parting his thighs a little. "You won't be able to fuck me," he blurts out quickly, because suddenly he needs John to know that. "Not... well... and I'm not particularly interested in anal..."

"Shhh," John murmurs, cupping his hand gently around Sherlock's phallus and squeezing. "I want to touch you," he says, low and intimate, in Sherlock's ear. "Are you comfortable?" Sherlock licks his lips.

"Yes," he says, because in fact John's hand is quite comfortable right where it is. Sherlock's usually so quick with words, so sharp. He struggles around a couple of open-mouthed silences and inhalations before he manages to find what he's looking for. "Please, John," he moans on an exhale. "Your hand feels... I want you to jerk me off. I want you to... stroke my dick." It sound strange and dry, artificial at first, but the little sound John makes in his ear, the rhythmic squeeze he gets in return, soften the unsure feeling that's rattling around his brain.

"Good boy," John sighs, tugging at Sherlock's earlobe with his teeth. That particular sensation isn't especially pleasurable, but John's voice uttering those words _is_ , deep down in his gut. The heel of John's hand unintentionally presses just below his belly, and Sherlock moans, head falling back.

"Oh..."

"It doesn't have to stick, you know," John encourages. "We can play with it." A dirty stream of lightning-speed thoughts course through Sherlock's brain before John clarifies that wasn't what he meant at all. "I can jerk your dick today, and it can be something else tomorrow. Whatever makes you feel good."

"This," Sherlock sighs. "This feels good."

"May I touch you here?" John asks, rubbing the skin of Sherlock's balls with his thumb and index finger. His mind tries to grasp onto the medical terms, _undescended testes_ , _blind vagina_ , words that have followed him relentlessly since puberty, but he won't let them conquer him now.

"Talk to me," Sherlock gasps. "Please, John. Touch me anywhere. Talk to me."

John interrupts what could become a stream of babble with a harsh whisper that sets Sherlock's bones on fire. "Fuck my hand, boy. First you're going to come for me, and then you're going to suck my cock so good my teeth ache, do you understand?"

Were Sherlock's brain even remotely online at this point, he might notice that John's taking a dangerous gamble as usual, addressing Sherlock like this, issuing orders. But John knows Sherlock better than anyone and therefore Sherlock and his brain are not on speaking terms for at least the next thirty minutes. He bucks his hips and sinks into that raspy, reassuring voice, words leaving his lips unbidden.

"Yes, fuck, please, _please_."

"Please, Sir."

" _Please_ , Sir," Sherlock moans. He's fully hard now, and he whimpers when John's hand leaves, when John's fingers push and prod at his entrance, gathering lubrication. It's not deep enough to be fucked, maybe he wishes it were, but this is so intimate that he's beyond caring, and all he can really do is beg. "Please Sir, oh God, oh fuck, don't stop..."

"You're going to hyperventilate, boy," John reprimands. "Breathe for me. In. Out. In..." He coaches Sherlock through a ten-count of breaths, and then his teeth dig so hard into Sherlock's neck that he cries out in pain, tries in desperation to grab at his own dick but John slaps his wrist away and yanks his arm behind his back, the other one too, holding Sherlock with his arms trapped in between them.

"Sir..." Sherlock moans.

"Somebody likes the chain of command..." John teases, taking Sherlock's dick in hand again with slick fingers rubbing too slow, too light, an unbearable tease. "Maybe next time I'll put my uniform on and flip you on your belly to lick your balls." Sherlock whinges so hard he sounds like a pained animal. "Shut up," John hisses. "Mrs. Hudson will hear you." Sherlock flushes with embarrassment, and then John grabs his dick with intent, jacking him steadily with thumb and two fingers.

"Please bite me," Sherlock whispers. "Please bite me Sir." Once wasn't nearly enough. Sherlock's known he's a masochist, but he hasn't imagined the difference a partner makes.

"Good boy. Come when you can for me," John orders, and then proceeds to work a savage necklace of marks around Sherlock's neck with just a gap for his throat. By the time he makes his way around to the other side, Sherlock's screaming and coming, ejaculate warm on his thighs. John inhales reverently, licks at the last imprint of teeth. "Fuck, that's hot."

For a minute, Sherlock just has to slump, catching his breath, mind thoroughly blown. When he feels even remotely able, though, he slips down to the floor with a thud, on his knees, twisting around and then tugging John closer by the thighs, face buried in wet heat.

"Fuck," John curses as Sherlock licks a single stripe up to his cock and then latches on, sucking like he was born to do it. Sherlock revels in the renewed feeling of John's hand in his hair, tugging, making his head bob like a porn star. He screws two fingers up inside John's cunt and feels the praise of John's pants and cries wash over him, wishing he could come again even though just the once is unusual for his physiology.

"Fucking gorgeous little boy, suck me," John growls, "suck me." Not enough brain left to psychoanalyze, that's what Sherlock wants to be--John's gorgeous little boy, John's fucktoy, whatever the hell John wants him to be. John's thighs clench around Sherlock's head when he comes and it's all at once claustrophobic and delicious. He barely notices as he's tugged up, rearranged, covered with a blanket and snuggled tight against John's body. At some point, waking shifts to sleep, and none of that matters. He's with John.


End file.
